The Price of Freedom
by The First Adventuress
Summary: War is hell. We lived it. We fought at the front of the Second World War. We survived the horror of Azzano. But evil has many heads, and HYDRA dragged us down. Hope is gone. Death stares us in the face. But one may change the tide of battle, and save the world. A Captain to whom every man, every life, is valuable and worth defending.
1. Chapter 1

**The Price of Freedom**

* * *

 **-Chapter One-**

* * *

 **Mission Malfunction**

I run forward, feet splashing through the mud, spattering me and my companions racing alongside me. Gunfire, and the cries of dying men ring in the air, but they seem far away behind the pounding of my heart in my ears, and my panting breaths, loud from fear and exertion.

I fire, then fire again. I am near the front of the pack, and there is no danger of me hitting my fellow troops. Behind is safety, ahead is the enemy and danger.

But I don't let my fear show.

Instead I let it give wings to my feet and fuel my courage. Around me, I can tell by their grimly desperate but controlled expressions that the others are doing the same. Suddenly we are among the enemy, and the fighting intensifies, some of it hand to hand. We press our way through the lines, but then something goes very wrong. More men spring from hidden positions, in buildings and trenches. People are dying all around me. Some are far enough back to run for safety, but for many of us there is only one course.

We run through the town, shooting on sight, and press our way into the woods, not looking back. I am trembling. I shot two men coming through the town, and I still remember their cries, and feel again the warm spatter of blood on my face from the one I shot point blank. My own blood too runs down my cheek, I have no idea what it was cut on.

We regroup in the leafless forest, early morning fog drifting among the bomb craters and shattered trees. Two hundred of us set out to combat what we believed to be only a company of Nazi HYDRA troops. Poor intelligence can be a deadly thing, and it is now clear that there was at least a battalion, and possibly an entire brigade, holding the town. Now only one hundred of us are left.

As the realization that we are trapped behind enemy lines, up against hopeless odds finally sinks in, I walk to the trunk of a fallen tree and sit heavily down. I find myself between my best friend Don, and Sergeant James Barnes. Technically I should greet him as a superior, but something tells me he isn't going to care about the botched formality now. We are all so tired, and wondering what to do next.

That question is decided for us as the drone of planes becomes intelligible, and they aren't ours. Bombs start falling and we run, not an organized charge, but a blind dash of self preservation. Sergeant Barnes grabs my arm and pulls me off my feet, down into one of the shell craters. I look around wildly. Don isn't with us. I stand and there he is, standing at the edge of the shell crater, staring open mouthed and momentarily paralyzed out at the violence around him.

But a moment can be enough to get you killed. I grab him and pull him down with us, none to gently. He gives a grunt of pain, and I realize he's wounded. A bullet has pierced his upper arm. There's no time to analyze the severity though, and we scuttle underneath a tree that has fallen across the crater, just in time. A bomb lands feet away, and I can hear the sound of shrapnel thudding into the wood above our heads.

"If we stay under here, only a direct hit can kill us," Barnes says.

I nod, not particularly reassured. With the sheer amount of ordnance raining down, it wouldn't take much for just that to happen.

Though it can't be more than a few minutes, the flying dirt and unbelievable concussion in the air and ground make it seem like hours before the bombs cease. We remain under our log, unwilling to believe that it's over. I'm beginning to understand the meaning if 'shell shocked'. An ominous silence takes over, then a low hum begins, growing in pitch and intensity. I barely have time to wonder what it is before the first tank rolls into view.

The hum grows behind me and I whirl to face two more tanks rolling up behind us. In a matter of seconds, whoever is left is surrounded. A few try to run: it doesn't do much good. The tanks are armed like none I have seen before. They shoot blue beams of light that vaporize what they touch on contact.

I duck back down. "Crawl out into the crater and play dead," I say. We do it, and hopefully we're beat up enough to look dead if we just stay still. My cheek is a big enough mess I could pass for shot in the head. Don lies across my legs, making us into a realistic-looking jumble of death. The guard's feet fill my vision as he stops above me.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Price of Freedom**

* * *

 **-Chapter Two-**

* * *

 **Captive**

Men in black jumpsuits and masks climb from the tanks and walk around, rounding up prisoners. They get to us. One kicks me viciously. I don't think I move, but he turns to his companion and says something in rapid German. I don't know what they do exactly, but the next thing I know, pain like nothing I've experienced runs through my body. I don't cry out, but my body jerks slightly and I wince before I can stop myself. By the sudden tensing of Don's body I know he feels it too.

The Germans laugh, and one bends down beside me, speaking in a heavy accent. "You're not dead, American. We know it. Get up unless you want to be tased again."

I climb to my feet, glaring disdainfully. The Germans laugh again as my companions stand as well. They search us for weapons, and unfortunately do a good job of it too, leaving not so much as a pin.

"Hands on your heads," one of the guards barks.

We have no choice but to walk to join the ever-growing knot of prisoners. The guards in their insect-like helmets stand all around, making escape all but impossible, especially as I know there are still plenty manning the tank guns. They secure our hands behind our backs with thin but incredibly strong binders, made of some sort of synthetic material, like plastic but different. A few experimental tugs get me nothing but a dirty look.

We are loaded into the tanks along with several others, and there is a wait of about forty-five minutes as they round up the last stragglers. Now is the first chance I get to examine Don's wound, and what I see worries me. It isn't serious, thank God the bullet missed the bone, but it _is_ bleeding, and there's nothing I can do about that, nor is there any sign of medical help from our captors.

One of the young prisoners looks at me like he's going to say something, but doesn't.

Finally we begin to move, and the tanks vibrate lightly with only a faint hum of an engine. Their technology is far more advanced than we ever knew, I realize. I also know that if I have any chance, no matter how slim, I have to make it out and carry this intelligence to command.

"I guess we're in for it," I say to Don.

"Silence, English svein!" a guard barks.

I crack a small smile. Everyone inside is full blooded American. I guess he doesn't know the difference between an American accent and a nice thick Cockney one. It's really the funniest thing I hope to hear for a while, maybe forever. Something about these men gives me the creeps, and makes me think we're not just normal POW's.

After many long minutes, the tanks stop and we are prodded out at gunpoint. We are stopped in front of a massive metal building, built into the rocky ground. Dozens of tanks, and pile upon pile of crates stuffed with deadly HYDRA guns litter the courtyard. A massive metal wall adds a second line of defense behind us. I pray no rescue mission is launched, it would be a futile waste of life.

The prisoners are lined up and marched inside, down several flights of stairs. Don stumbles, and I notice his face is pale and beaded in sweat. He is struggling. One of the HYDRA guards pulls him to his feet with an oath. That's when I notice the absence of any severely wounded prisoners. Surely there must be some, the fighting was very intense…then I remember some stray shots I heard as we were leaving. I assumed there had been a large breakout attempt but…perhaps there are no wounded as the HYDRA guns leave none. The thought makes me want to be sick, shooting wounded is the one of the most barbaric crimes of war, but I know now that weakness means death, and show no sign.

We stumble down the last flight of stairs onto a perforated catwalk. Along the sides are metal grids, covering what are more or less cages, capable of holding seven people. One by one the cages are unlocked and the men climb into them. Don, Barnes and I, and four others are the first to be 'caged'. As one of the last men, a tall broad shouldered one with a fiery mustache hesitates to enter his cell, the guard knocks his hat off with a billy club.

The soldier with the hat glares at him, and says in a measured voice of half concealed threat, "You know Fritz, one of these days I'm going to have a stick of my own."

When the last grid clangs over the last prisoner, we are left alone with only a few guards and our thoughts.

One of my fellow prisoners stands up, and I recognize him as the young prisoner that was in the tank with us, the one that tried to say something.

"I'm a medic," he says, getting right to the point. "I saw you wanting to help him when we were in the tank and would have said something then, but I wasn't sure how our captors would react."

He tears the lining from his coat and winds it tightly but not to tightly around Don's wounded arm. I watch, biting my lip, as the bandage turns slowly red, but the bleeding seems to be arrested, and eventually stops.

"Just don't move unless you can help it, and don't take any unnecessary risks," he says to Don, motioning to the guards above us.

Don nods in acknowledgement.

I walk over beside the young man. "Thank you," I say in a low voice.

He looks at me. "It was simply the human thing to do," he says firmly.

"I know," I say. "Still, I appreciate it. Obviously not everyone does the human thing." I gesture to the guards, and the men locked in cages.

He smiles a little. "Your welcome."

Satisfied, I sit back next to Don. His head eventually droops against my shoulder as he succumbs to exhaustion. I lower him gently to the floor, pillowing his head as best I can on what's left of my jacket. Since everyone else is resting, and talking is discouraged anyway, I lean against the wall of the cell, resting and staring into the minimal light of bulbs along the ceiling. Soon, emotionally and physically exhausted, rest turns to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Price of Freedom**

* * *

 **-Chapter Three-**

* * *

 **The Highest Form of Courage**

I awaken to the sound of footsteps clanging on the catwalk, and several voices speaking rapid, urgent German. A tall man in a long, black leather coat is walking toward us, flanked by six guards. Their boots ring on the grating and stop above us. My heart sinks. there is something inherently evil about this man, and the badge he wears. It is a silver skull, with six tentacles curling ominously around it, like a demented octopus. When he bends down, I see dried blood crusted around the edges, between the tentacles. He speaks in English, probably hoping his words will frighten us.

They do.

"Open that one," he says, pointing to our cell.

I shiver. His accent isn't quite right, in fact nothing about him is quite right. His voice hisses, and strange scars, like long narrow burn marks, frame his face.

He points to Sergeant Barnes. "This man looks strong, we will run the test on him first. If it works, do the others, if not…" he grins demonically, "we will refine our procedures and select another subject."

I step between Sergeant Barnes and the soldiers. They want him as a guinea pig in some sadistic experiment, a fate that should he reserved for no one. The very idea is abhorrent. But Sergeant Barnes puts a hand on my shoulder and moves me to the side, looking me in the eye. His face is brave and desperate.

"Don't," he says. "They'll take me no matter what, you'll just be an inconvenient obstacle that they'll smash their way right through. I don't need that on my conscience, whether it's my fault or not. And you need to be here for your friend."

"Yes," the HYDRA in the dark coat hisses, "Yes, take care of your friend American. Enjoy him while he lasts. It won't be overlong. I would have simply put him out of the picture, but it would be a waste of a bullet."

I stand, frozen, transfixed by the maniacal gloating on the man's face as the guards lead Barnes away. It's all I can do, despite the warnings, to keep myself from launching after him, digging my nails into his scars, and ripping his nasty face right off.

In my mind, it is easier to give your life for someone than to be the one they die for. I understand what he is saying, and would have said the same. But still, the thought of what they may do to him is enough to keep me standing, clenching and unclenching my hands helplessly, for a long time.

They march from the room. Barnes looks very small among the heavily armored guards. Bile rises in my throat at the thought of what they may do to him. I turn away, blinking back furious tears of rage and helplessness. There's nothing I can do for Sergeant Barnes or, I force myself to face it, my slowly dying friend. And HYDRA's hissing top dog knows it.

"There wasn't anything you could do," Don speaks up from the shadows.

"I know," I say fiercely, but my voice comes out choked. "And that's _exactly_ what makes me so angry! There's nothing I can do for—" I stop myself.

"Nothing you can do for me, either," he finishes quietly.

A small, exasperated sound of affirmation is all the answer I give.

" _But that isn't true_!" He sits up, and a flame kindles in his eyes and voice. "We can show spirit, even as they kill us. We can defy him, refuse to beg, cry out, concede, _whatever it is he wants us to do,_ we still don't have to do it! To him, in his arrogance, it will be the ultimate slap in the face." His voice becomes softer. "We can show him the courage that is ultimately going to win this war, even if we're not here to see it."

I nod quietly, and I can see by the light of the flickering lights that I am not the only one awake, and that these brave words have fallen on many ears.

"We can be brave," I say huskily. I feel like a heel. Here he is, dying, little or no hope of ever seeing the sun again, and he's the one keeping _me_ together. But I know he is right, and then and there I swear to myself that I _will_ be strong.

For him.

For myself.

For the others.

For America, and, ultimately, for freedom.

Sometimes, a quiet refusal to give in, a refusal to play the game on the enemies terms, is the highest form of courage.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Price of Freedom**

* * *

 **-Chapter Four-**

* * *

 **The Star Spangled Man with the Plan**

Now that I know why we are here, sleep does not come easily. I sit for a while, just staring into the half light. Across the cell, I can see our medic friend is restless as well.

Sometime around midnight Don falls asleep again, at least I hope he's asleep and not unconscious.

Then I have the first sign that something is amiss. A guard runs into the room, speaking urgently in German. Half the guards follow him out at a run. The medic, who I thought was asleep, now raises his head and his eyes become alert.

"What do you think is happening?" I whisper.

"I don't know," he answers back.

We sit, waiting, peering into the gloom for a clue.

I know something is _very_ amiss when I hear the dull thuds of a hard object striking flesh, and the sharper clang of metal on metal. A tall man races into the room. The guards dash toward him, firing as they run, this time with normal pistols. two of them are killed instantly by bullets ricocheting off the piece of metal he raises to protect himself. The other five he engages hand to hand, taking them out in seconds with a few well placed blows of shield and fist.

By now all the prisoners, even Don, are on their feet watching and I get my first good look at the metal as the mysterious intruder raises it to protect his torso, panting slightly as he scans the room for other guards. My initial flash of dislike is replaced by amazement and confusion.

 _Nobody_ likes Captain America. He's a silly man with a perfect 1A classification running around in glorified pajamas instead of serving his country. And that's not the worst of it. He stars in both live and pre-filmed war bonds commercials, with a troupe of extremely attractive, scantily clad women. And then he's lauded as a hero, like he's doing something big. He was supposed to appear in a performance for our company, the 107th, the night of the day of our mission. Frankly, none of us were sorry we missed it.

Now here's some guy in a bomber jacket, carrying the Captain's star spangled shield, apparently attempting a one-man rescue. The whole thing is so implausible, and yet Steve Rogers _is_ supposed to be within a hundred miles of us at this time. In the end, it's the only thing that makes sense.

He looks around, and gives us a nod, acknowledging our curious stares. "Fellas."

"Who are you supposed to be?" somebody asks the question we're all wondering.

He pauses, seeming to consider revealing his identity. Then, confidently: "I'm Captain America."

"I beg pardon?"

Yep, that raised a few eyebrows. But some things are more important, and right now getting away is one of them. The captain blows the door locks with a few well-placed shots and releases us. He scans the face of every soldier as they leave their cells, looking for someone. As the last man leaves the last cell, his face falls.

"Is there anybody else?" he calls. "I'm looking for a Sergeant James Barnes—"

I open my mouth to speak, but someone else beats me to it.

"There's an isolation ward in the factory, but no one's ever come back from it."

He takes the information well, although I can see it hurts. "Alright," then he masters himself and switches gears. "The tree line is northwest, 80 yards past the gate. Get out fast and give 'em hell. I'll meet you guys in the clearing with anybody else I find."

Most of us nod unquestioning acknowledgement, but somebody has their doubts. "Wait, you know what your doing?"

Okay, probably a legitimate question.

He looks the man in the eye. "Yeah. I've knocked out Adolf Hitler over two hundred times."

That one _really_ raises some eyebrows. As someone familiar with the show, I know he is referencing 'knocking out' an actor disguised as our ultimate enemy as part of the whole promotion.

The whole Star Spangled Man craze started just before I was shipped overseas, and I went to one of the performances, thinking maybe it would be something actually patriotic. I'll also confess that the Hitler moment was as long as I stayed.

The Captain runs off into the maze of tunnels, and we begin to move out.

As the men in front of us head for the door I look over at Don. He isn't moving, and stands, paler than ever, clutching the door pole in a white knuckled grip. Sweat trickles down his forehead, plastering his hair wetly against his skull, and the wound must have opened up again as fresh blood seeps through the drying stain already present. I dash back into our cell and retrieve my coat. On the body of a dead HYDRA guard I find a knife, and quickly slash the coat into long strips. Another soldier hangs back to help us, but I wave him away, telling him to go with the others, I can handle it by myself.

He turns, and I recognize him as the medic. "But you don't have to," he says. He comes back to us and takes the strips of improvised bandaging from my hand, then winds the strips around Don's arm. My chest clenches in fear as I realize that not only the bandage but most of his coat sleeve as well is soaked in blood.

I help him get his good arm around my shoulders, and hand the knife to the other soldier.

"Thanks," he says. Then he hesitates. "I don't believe I know you're name?"

"Johnathan," I say. "What's yours?"

"Patrick," he answers, looking back over his shoulder as we set off into the maze of tunnels.

I tell myself I know the way but I'm not so sure. "We're going to have to run a little, to try to catch up," I say.

Don nods grimly, probably not trusting himself to speak. We jog, and are panting hard when I finally hear voices, American voices, ahead of me. The Captain is not with them, and I know he has gone in search of his friend. He probably won't come back. All the same, I hope I would have the courage to act the same for Don. Patrick is swallowed into the mass of others as we flow through the halls.

We meet only a few guards, and, armed with HYDRA weapons as some of us are, only their dust is left behind. I wish we didn't have to use those. The sight of someone, even a ruthless enemy, being torn to pieces, vaporized, by one of those awful ray guns will haunt me forever. It is a fate horrible to contemplate. I wouldn't wish that death on anyone.

Suddenly we are in the open, outdoors. And we're being fired at. Bullets kick up dust on either side of us, and we run forward blindly, but Don stumbles and we have no choice but to take cover behind a crate of ammunition. I'm not sure how we're going to survive if we can't leave the area. From this vantage point, I can see that most of our party is making their escape, although I watch several blown to bits, unable to tear my eyes away from the sickening spectacle of warfare before my face. Then I notice that one of the former prisoners has commandeered a tank, and hope flares inside me once again.

Don and I try to run again, but he just can't and we have to duck for cover once again. It's just as well we did though, even if we didn't get far. A laser hits the box of munitions we were hiding behind only seconds before. It explodes into a million particles of light, and there's no question what state we'd be in if we were still behind it. The fighting dies down, I guess everyone made it. We stay crouched, but we can only stay _inside the HYDRA base_ for so long. Then the ground begins to tremble, distantly at first, but more violently every second. I have just identified them as explosions, and pulled Don to his feet to run, when a strange craft takes off from the roof. Seconds later, a car shoots from the opening of the bunker in high gear, and HYDRA guards are flooding from the far side of the building.

I pull Don with me and we run forward. He stumbles, pulling me down, then we're up and running again as orange light glows from the roof of the bunker, the ground heaving under our feet. Then two figures, one supporting the other run from the entrance, smoke following them out. Another dashes from the woods and I recognize Patrick, running forward to help us.

"Get back, get back," I yell, waving my arm frantically, but my voice is lost in the rumble of the building tearing itself apart behind us.

He ignores me utterly, supporting Don on the other side as we run faster. The men from the building draw level with us. It's the Captain and Sergeant Barnes! They made it! The glad smile is still stuck on my face when Patrick suddenly lets go of Don and pushes us over, falling heavily on top of us.

There is thunderous burst of sound suddenly cut off and we are all thrown into the air. It happens very fast, but feels like slow motion. I feel a sensation of weightlessness, and at first there's noise but it quickly changes to buzzing as something gives inside my ear. Then I slam into the ground and I'm eating dirt, breathing dirt, seeing dirt. there is only vibration and pain and struggling to breathe, to see. The silence is deafening.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Price of Freedom**

* * *

 **-Chapter Five-**

* * *

 **The Price of Freedom**

Slowly and painfully I uncurl myself from the jumble of arms and legs we landed in. My face stings with new nicks and scratches, and my head and arm hurt. I think I must have landed on someone's boot. I stand shakily, slightly disoriented. The Captain had almost reached us when the explosion happened, and as he stands up almost under my feet I realize it was his shield that whacked me. Theirs a nasty dent in it that I'm sure hoping it wasn't my head that made it. Sure feels like it was. My shirt sleeve is torn, and a few grains of dirt stick in my skin. I must have fallen very hard, and I feel it.

Don stands up beside me, and I'm relieved he doesn't look to bad, no worse than he was, at least. Worst of all is my ears. I can see Cap trying to speak to me, but I just shake my head.

"I can't hear you," I say, at least I hope that's what I say, since I can't hear it. The Captain nods, so I guess he understands.

Someone's still missing. Where's Patrick? I finally locate him and my heart lurches in terror. Then I seem to be moving in a dream, desperately hoping it's not real, but the vague buzz in my ears and the pain in my head tells me it is. And if it's real, then so is the battered, still figure behind us. Don follows my gaze and his eyes get wide in horror.

I was a fool to imagine that we could have come through that explosion unscathed. Explosions make shrapnel, but I wasn't about to question the fact I'd survived since obviously I have. Now I know that the only reason I did was because Patrick covered us.

As I run forward the ground seems to spin a little as my head aches worse. I remember the sensation of something hitting me just before the building blew. Patrick pushed us out of the way.

And he paid the price.

His uniform is soaked with blood and his hair matted with what could only be more blood. I drop to the ground beside him, Don beside me stride for stride. We stop, puffs of dust rising from the ground and drop down beside him. At first I'm certain he's dead, but then I see the tenseness of his face and the pain in his eyes that he's alive and conscious. How that's possible I'm not sure, and even though I'm no medic I know there's no way in heaven or hell that it will last.

His fingers clench and unclench, probably in a vain attempt to deal with the pain. On impulse, I grab his hand and his eyes turn toward me, a faint smile on his battered face. The flicker of fear in his eyes grows. He knows he's dying.

Don puts his hand over mine and we are joined in the face of death, together escorting the dying man through his final breaths. The hot wind of the burning building pushes against my hair and the smoke stings at my raw throat. It's not the only thing that fills my throat with a choky lump.

Suddenly Patrick stiffens, squeezing my hand so hard that it hurts. His eyes squeeze shut, sweat starting on his forehead. Then he opens them again, staring into our faces and clinging to our hands as though we can hold him above the waves of death that drag at his feet. The fear as back and his mouth opens in what looks like a gasp, though I still can't hear a thing. A single tear leaks from his eye and he squeezes impossibly hard, as though begging us not to let him go. I try to keep my face from twisting in the sadness, pain, terror, and helplessness I feel. He sacrificed himself for me.

Then he releases a shuddering exhale and closes his eyes, face suddenly calming into a look if such deep acceptance and serenity a split second before his hand goes slack. Slowly I release it and Don does too. We climb stiffly to our feet. Then I see that the entire remnant of our battalion has come from the woods, standing in a silent half circle, their faces mixtures of respect and sadness.

Feeling a million years older, I turn back to Patrick's body, finally thinking of something I can do. I squat beside him and cross his arms over his chest, then pull the ragged edges of his uniform straight. I push his matted hair away from his face, then Don reaches down beside me and places his hat on Patrick's head.

We stand up, and there is a ripple of movement among the assembled men as the Captain stands straight and raises his arm in a salute. First Sergeant Barnes and then the rest match his gesture, paying the only tribute they can to the brave boy lying behind us. Don and I stand straight and salute. Silhouetted against the drifting smoke and sparks of the dying inferno, his face smudged with dirt and blood and the look of heaven on his face, Patrick looks like a hero.

A very young one.

He is.

After a minute or so in response to some unspoken order, we lower our hands and turn away, leaving a brave man lying under the stars. We march into the forest, the Captain taking the lead. It seems that seeing Patrick die has changed us somehow. We've all seen death before, but this was strangely personal. We had already seemingly escaped, and a young man gave that up to save four people he had known for less than a day.

Don is having trouble, though after what we just saw he would never admit it, and when someone points to the tank, presumably suggesting he ride it, he can't climb up.

The others help me hoist him onto the tank, and I'm going to get down but someone motions for me to stay, pointing to Don. The meaning is clear, "stay with your friend, he needs it."

I nod tiredly, and lean back against the gun turret. I don't realize that I'm falling asleep until the tank grinds to a halt and the sudden stop nearly jolts me off. Someone has fallen of the tank. Someone bends over him and shakes his head. We have a moment of silence, and those of us still possessing hats remove them. It is an older man who had been wounded in action escaping the base, shot in the side with a pistol I think. He didn't make it. I glance at Don, and a chill runs through me as I realize he could be going the same way. His face has gone from white to grayish, and sweat has soaked into his collar. Even though one of my ears is completely silent and the other buzzes, I can tell just by looking that his breath is raspy and irregular.

I can't watch another person die, I think. I can't! But I have no control, and can only sit there and beg us to hurry, knowing that we're moving as fast as we can. Everyone is as tired as I am, I remind myself. But still I want to scream at them to hurry.

The tank begins to move again, but despite my exhaustion there is no way I can relax again the way I did earlier. Instead I sit tense, scanning the horizon for a clue as to where we are.

Around a half an hour later the acrid smoke of fires from bombing stings my nose, and what would normally be a smell of ruin and death is a smell of salvation. We are approaching the place where we were taken captive, less than ten miles from camp. A tenseness fills the air. The enemy still holds this town, and we will probably have to fight our way through at great cost. Someone volunteers to scout ahead, and we take a rest, waiting for the scout to return.

He comes back within a few minutes, running, a grin on his face. Somewhere among the ghostly trees, a bird chirps a few notes, then stops as the man cries out: "They must have bombed the place in the night! Our men are holding the trenches!"

A smile spreads across my face and I turn to Don. Then my smile quickly fades. He is staring straight ahead, sweat rolling down his face, fighting to retain consciousness. "We're almost there," I say.

He nods tightly.

The next two hours are impossibly hard, and neither the convoy nor the rising sun move fast enough for my liking, but finally we are rolling up the ridge that is right before our camp.

A scout spots us coming and runs over the hill, shouting the news. As we march over the crest, men are already peering out of their tents, and as we enter the camp someone begins to clap, until a roar of welcome cascades over us. My right ear has stopped buzzing, and through that I am beginning to hear again, though the left one is still completely silent. I look out over the cheering camp. I don't deserve it, I think, the one's that _aren't_ here do.

Our commander greets the Captain as he returns, and I can't hear what they say, it's too far away, but I can hear Sergeant Barnes' cry of: "Let's hear it for Captain America!" and gladly comply. If this were a lighter occasion I'd probably crack some joke about us not being the '27 Yankees, but I'm very aware that we've just escaped the jaws of death or worse, and those jaws still hang nearly shut over some.

I help Don down from the tank, and the last five feet end up as a semi-controlled fall. I am able to assist him to the medical tent, and then all I can do is wait.

I sit down against the post, my knees weakening as the thought of what might have been hits me and I am tumbled like a grain of sand on waves of terror and relief. I can see by the other's wide eyes, and the panting breaths of one man, that this realization is hitting them too.

Jim Morita, a Japanese American and the butt of recurring jokes about his race pulls his hat from his head and puffs his cheeks, raising his eyebrows as he rubs the back of his neck. "Close call," he says.

I smile nervously, "That's putting it mildly. I don't think we're the only ones feeling it, either."

"Nope," he says. Then his expression changes. "Lucky fellow!"

In answer to my questioning look, he gestures to my left. I follow the motion and my eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Our tough Agent Peggy Carter is clinging tearfully to the Captain's neck.

"Wish I had that," Morita says. His tone turns serious. "I hope your friend makes it."

I nod, my worry for Don rushing back.

Then he walks to the mess tent. Yes, Morita can think with his stomach even after a near death experience. I'm afraid I'm not so resilient.

One of the medics comes back, and I guess he's done with whoever he's treating. "Come with me one at a time," he says, motioning to me and some of the other survivors still standing near by. "I've treated the severely wounded, but you," he looks meaningfully at me, "and many others I'm sure, have some nasty bumps and bruises."

We follow him into the hospital tent, and someone brings us mugs of coffee while we wait our turn. That's when it hits me that I haven't eaten or drunk for over twenty-four hours. I sip slowly, not wanting to make myself sick, and have just finished the last few drops when they call my name. I stand up and walk into a closed off area of the tent. The medic cleans the cut on my face, wiping away the blood and dirt, and cleans the same from my hands. He sprays antiseptic on my many scrapes, and purses his lips at the cut on my cheek, but it's too late for stitches so it'll just have to heal on its own.

The medic prods me all over, confirming the fact that I didn't break any bones in the fall. I tell him about my ear and he frowns. He explains that it's common among people in the artillery and that since my hearing has already returned in my right ear there's no reason that should change anything soon, but that there's an excellent chance I'll never hear from my left one again. I'm sure that knowledge will upset me one day but right now I'm just glad to be alive, with my only prescriptions food, water, and rest.

I'm walking out of the tent altogether when I spot Don in one of the cots, near the door. His shirt is off, and his arm is swathed in bandages. He still looks pale, but the sickly gray color is gone. When I move to stand beside him, he opens his eyes and gives a weak smile, raising his good arm in the V sign for victory.

I sink down, a tear running down my cheek and stinging my cut before I can stop it. I have almost lost my friend, and my life, in the same twenty-four hours. Many sacrifices have been made, some unnoticed. The men who made them will always be remembered by the ones they save though, and I think that's how they'd want it anyway. I don't think any of us will ever forget Patrick.

So many did not survive. But we Don and I have. A man's value is not based so much on the time he has as on what he does with it, and those of us who have seen or paid the price of freedom will always remember that.

The price of freedom is high, it always has been, and in all likelihood always will be. But it's a price that Steve Rogers, Don, and any other soldier who takes the field to serve their country, is willing to pay.

As am I.

* * *

 **Well, this story has reached the end of the line. You guys are amazing. It's like half my visitors end up leaving reviews. Thank you all so much for reading this. I hope it was an inspiring tribute to those that have fought for their countries over the years.**


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